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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25640380">I Want to Hold Your Hand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/debwalsh/pseuds/debwalsh'>debwalsh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War Bucky Barnes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:56:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,761</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25640380</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/debwalsh/pseuds/debwalsh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Bucky Barnes extends his hand to Steve Rogers, Steve hesitates only a moment to take it.  After that, it's a given.</p>
<p>For the I Want to Hold Your Hand prompt for Marvel Undercover 2020.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Marvel Undercover 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Want to Hold Your Hand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Chapter 2 is coming!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>The first time Steve Rogers found himself on the other side of Bucky Barnes’s hand, he was seven years old, wiping a gush of blood from his newly broken nose with the back of his own hand, peering up through a haze of pain and a flop of his blond hair over his eyes.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Steve squinted up at the new kid suspiciously. Anyone who had a hand out to Steve Rogers was usually gearing up to pull back and punch his lights out, or let go as soon as he got his feet halfway under him. So to see the grimy fingers poking through the fingerless gloves, knuckles scabbed and bloody, thrusting toward his face, Steve did what came naturally - he grabbed at the hand with both of his and pushed back.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Which led to the boy stumbling backward to land on his ass, the squelch of butt hitting the sooty slush of the schoolyard, a surprised laugh punching out of the kid, while in the background Fatty Abernathy and Chickie Rocco sniggered and clapped each other on the back. They were the dumbest kids in the third grade, both held back at least once and working toward another encore if they weren’t careful. So they liked to take their failures out on the little kids because they figured they were the only ones who wouldn’t find back. So of course Steve had to step up ...</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>With both Fatty and Chickie lumbering toward them, Steve scrambled to his feet, only to have that hand thrust out at him again.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Help me up, we’ll take ‘em on together,” the kid commanded.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>And there was something about the devilish twinkle in his gray blue eyes that caught Steve off guard, and he paused.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“C’mon, I can’t get any wetter. Might as well make it count for somethin’, huh?”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Steve tilted his head, and smiled, ignoring the pain that shot through his face at the muscles reminding him his nose was broken. Ignoring the smear of blood across the back of his hand, he spat into his palm and stuck his hand out at the kid.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“You any good?”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>The kid hauled himself to his feet, barely tugging on Steve’s hand at all. When he was standing again, he grinned at Steve, shook his hand, and said, “Bucky Barnes. C’mon, we can take ‘em together.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Steve couldn’t help the bloody grin he gave back, answered, “Steve Rogers,” and that’s how he found himself back to back with Bucky Barnes, with Fatty Abernathy and Chickie Rocco groaning at their feet just as Mrs. Conway stormed out of the school with murder in her eyes.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>All in all, it was a pretty good day, even when clapping the erasers at detention gave him an asthma attack. ‘Cos Bucky Barnes was there to pat him on the back and count out breaths until he wasn’t choking on his own air. And that seemed a good enough foundation to build a friendship on.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>&amp;&amp;&amp;</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Steve would never forget the day he first grabbed the hand of Bucky Barnes, but if someone asked him later how many times they’d rushed, hand in hand, into some hare-brained adventure or other, he couldn’t really say. Truth was, that first time was Bucky the New Kid looking for a friend, and for some bizarre reason he’d picked the tiny kid with the dodgy lungs and the killer uppercut. But every time since then, it was one or the other of them leading the other into some scrape, out of danger, or up the fire escape to clamber onto the roof and look out over the alien landscape of Brooklyn at night.</span>
  

</p>
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>All that changed earlier that summer when Bucky discovered girls. They’d discovered him a year or so earlier, but he hadn’t really been interested. He’d preferred to spend his time with Steve, building a blanket fort in the Rogers’ front room, or reading the funny pages under the covers with the flashlight he’d liberated from his father’s tool chest, or spinning tales into the darkness as the boys lay side by side in Steve’s bed while his Ma worked the graveyard shift at the hospital.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>But that summer that Bucky Barnes looked back at the girls who’d been looking at him, that was the summer that Steve remembered Bucky stopped reaching for his hand. Stopped spending all his free time with Steve. Started keeping time with one girl or another, they were lined up like he was handing out free ice cream. And Steve? Well, it’d been a while, but Steve knew how to keep himself occupied.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>It wasn’t like Steve didn’t have any other friends. He did. There were the gals and fellas in his art class - they were always inviting him to join them. And sometimes he went - it was fun going through the museums with other kids who could appreciate the art. Although he missed the puns and jokes that Bucky would offer up as they passed by the great masters or the challenging mix of images that was modern art. So Steve had been spending time surrounding himself with art and the sensibilities of artists.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>And there was Sophie Grimaldi, the girl from the Italian tenement two blocks over who needed a tutor in English, and help with translations in nearly everything else. Not that Steve knew a lick of Italian, but Sophie was kind, and the money her Mom pressed into his hand each week helped his Ma and him a lot. Even once the school year was done and they were in the sweltering days of summer, Mrs. Grimaldi asked Steve to continue helping Sophie - and by extension Mrs. Grimaldi - to learn enough English that they wouldn’t stick out in their neighborhood.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Sometimes, Steve felt like he was to Sophie what Bucky had been to him - a path toward normality.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>But it seemed like his path had come to an end, or maybe just a fork. Bucky was the most popular boy in their class, in demand with the ladies, and the fellas all wanted to rub up close to steal a bit of his shine.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Steve guessed that maybe he’d gotten as much shine as he was gonna get. Bucky was popular now. Well, he’d always been popular. But now ... now he reaped the benefits of it. It was worth something to him now.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>So it wasn’t like Steve was alone all the time. And it wasn’t like he was sad all the time. It’s just ... in the past nine years, he’d gotten used to Bucky being there more often than he wasn’t. With his hand stuck out and his eyes dancing with mischief, ready to pull Steve along on another Barnes-Rogers adventure.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>So ... he’d adapt.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>The day was hot, and lunch with Ma had been hurried because she had a double at the hospital since two of the other nurses had called out. Not sick, but for picnics and potluck. The whole neighborhood had a festive air as they counted down to the fireworks over the harbor, as folks prepared and shared all kinds of foods. He and Ma had been lucky Winnie Barnes had come by with a couple of plates piled high, her eyes sliding off Steve as she fought not to make eye contact. And wow. Okay. Ma had been happy of the gift, and made sure to send Winnie on her way with a plate loaded high with thick slabs of cake as thank you.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Steve’s birthday cake. There’d been no candles, since Steve’s lungs couldn’t be trusted not to protest if he did something as simple as blow out a flame. But he’d enjoyed the sweet flavors bursting over his tongue, reveled in the happy glances his Ma tossed his way as they worked their way through their lunch together. She’d been shy as she’d slid a small box across the table toward Steve, and he’d been filled with love for this amazing woman he called Ma. No matter what, she always made the moment special.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>The gift was small, little more than stubs of some really nice pencils and charcoals. Good stuff he wouldn’t want to waste, but whose colors and textures he’d enjoy just the same.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>It was a good birthday, a happy one. A satisfying one. And when she’d kissed him on the forehead as she departed for her double shift, Steve was content.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>He figured he’d make his way to the roof later in the evening, and sit up there to watch the fireworks cascade through the night. But it was early still, and he settled in on their couch to read for a while, the music on the wireless a gentle backdrop as the heat and the sugar and the contentment had their ways with him, and he fell into a doze.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>&amp;&amp;&amp;</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Hey, punk, you’re gonna miss it.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Hmm?”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Fireworks, dummy. They’re gonna start soon.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Wha-?” Steve replied, rousing stiffly. He’d fallen asleep with his neck at a funny angle, and now it hurt to straighten. “Buck? What’re you doing here, jerk?”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Think I’m gonna miss my best guy’s birthday? Think again. Now c’mon - we got some fireworks to watch.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“I thought you were - uh ...”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“You thought I wasn’t coming.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Yeah.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Yeah. I can see that. I haven’t been a good friend to you lately. Haven’t been a good friend to me, either.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“What’s that mean?”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Means I’d rather spend time with you than those mooks, pal. Any day of the week. But ‘specially on your birthday. So get a move on, huh? Can’t let Ernie and his crazy Ma get the best seat on the roof.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Ernie and his Ma went down to Philly to visit her sister. Prob’ly nobody up on the roof - everybody’s been cooking and visiting. Your Ma was here earlier -“</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“I know. She read me the riot act over not being here for your birthday lunch.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Didn’t invite you, jerk.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Never stopped me before, punk.”</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Bucky stood up, his hand outstretched to Steve, who blinked blearily at it for a moment. Then Bucky seemed to deflate a bit, his natural bravado bleeding off to uncertainty.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>“Honest, Steve. There’s no place I’d rather be than here with you on your birthday. I’m sorry I’ve been such a scrub. Lemme make it up to you?” he asked hopefully, a vulnerable chink in the armor that was Bucky Barnes.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>Steve looked from the well-groomed hand up to the well-groomed boy who smiled nervously, and he couldn’t help himself if he tried. He reached out and grabbed that hand, and they were off.</span>
    </p></div></div><div class="">
<p></p><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr"><p>
      <span>&amp;&amp;&amp;</span>
    </p></div></div></div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Would love to know what you think!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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